


Across a Crowded Room...

by TheRedWave



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambition, F/M, Fame, Forgiveness, Other, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Privilege, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-10-23 08:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17679911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedWave/pseuds/TheRedWave
Summary: 'Two times Hermione ignores Lucius Malfoy, and one time she doesn't.'A post Deathly Hallows fic in which being a war hero has its perks. Hermione-centric, with inspiration drawn from the movies.





	1. An Unnecessary Prologue: The Golden Trio, the Golden Age

 

“To us!” Ron crowed, clanking his tankard against theirs with a great slosh of butterbeer. This had to be the fourth toast of the round, and he was clearly running out of ideas. But it was the thought that counted, wasn’t it? She felt a crushing wave of affection for him as she and Harry whooped joyously, ‘Hear hear!’

All around them, Hogsmeade was a roaring, teeming mass of delight. It was official; Harry Potter had passed his NEWT’s and half the school had been invited to what promised to be a night to end all nights. Even Hagrid came, hiding his tears of pride behind those old fashioned goggles of his.

Music was coming from somewhere and she would bet her last galleon that it was _Muggle music._ It was so loud that they practically had to bellow in each others ears just to make themselves heard. Various young wizards and witches were attempting to dance with varying degrees of success. Ron’s face was sticky with sweets, and the night was warmer than an English autumn had a right to be.

It was perfect.

None of them had said it aloud, but they all knew that tonight marked the end of the mourning. The end of the grief. Their dead were buried, and the weight bearing down on the survivors grew a little lighter every day. The future that Voldemort tried to rob them of was ripe for the taking, and what better way to honour the dead than to live their lives as best they could?

Harry was going to be an auror. Ron was going to be- well, whatever Ron was going to be. Quidditch Captain, Hogwarts professor, co-owner of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. His life’s dream changed on a daily basis.

And as for her?

She grinned conspiratorially behind her tankard. Well, _she_ had made up her mind months ago. She was going to prove every stuck-up Slytherin wrong. Every witch and wizard who had ever looked down their nose at her and thought that she didn't belong. That because of her heritage, she would never amount to anything.

She, Hermione Granger, was going to be the Greatest Witch of the Age.

Seized by an impulse she hadn’t felt in weeks, she gave her boyfriend a kiss on the cheek, firmly ignoring the cheers that erupted at the sight. Ron’s smile lit up her world, and across the table from them, Harry laughed, green eyes sparkling with joy to see them so happy. Voldemort’s death had aged him, but the miasma of dread was gone. He was so confident, even then. Ginny sat beside him, just as she would for the next twenty years.

In the dream, for she knew it was a dream even now, she felt Ron’s hand take hers and give it a tender squeeze and her heart lurched, and she desperately, desperately, did not want to wake. They were still in love! And all four of them, still together!

But dreams, she had learned, were fragile things. They did not last forever.

And victory was more fragile still.

 

* * *

 

 

Looking back, it took a long time before the nightmare started to surface.

No longer did she have to deal with any of the snide bullying, loneliness, or rampant danger that characterised so much of her childhood. She rode the euphoria of victory, and youth, and more than anything, the softly-glowing memories of that final night at Hogsmeade, like a tidal wave.

She spent the next six months living and breathing magic. When she was not barricaded in her flat with a mountain of old books and Crookshanks, or practicing some heady incantation, she was scrawling notes for her own charms. She found she barely needed to sleep. Exhilaration and success proved a potent tonic.

After several stringent letters from her (and a single explosive one from Harry) she gained access to the Ministry’s own libraries, and her walk into enlightenment turned into a run. Seeing the wealth of knowledge there almost made her regret relinquishing her Time-Turner. But instead of being daunted by the prospect of so much work, she was thrilled by just how much there was to learn. After all, for every great witch and wizard who had been kind enough to write down all their knowledge for her to enjoy, there were a hundred who felt no such compulsion. The thought of how much knowledge must be lost from one generation to the next was faintly horrifying, and it did not take long for her to realise that books could not be her sole educators if she meant to truly become the greatest witch of her age.

Thankfully, Hermione Granger was nothing if not resourceful. Once a fortnight, she drank tea with Madame Maxime. She took the time to cultivate a friendship with the Head of Martial Studies at Durmstrang (which, in itself, was a great achievement, as far as she was concerned). She attended lectures and symposiums all across the wizarding world. Her fame granted her access to all sorts of ancestral vaults and private collections, and before long her Pensieve was filled with memory upon memory of all the spells and potions she had uncovered.

Of course she, Ron, and Harry were almost never in the same room nowadays. They could never find the time. But their friendship never wavered. They were proud of each other, and physical distance was not powerful enough to sever the bonds that war and hardship had made between them.

By the time she was twenty she had become, if not _the_ Greatest Witch of the Age, (for the Age was not over yet, as Headmistress McGonagall was so fond of reminding her) a serious contender for the title.

It was not all easy, though. Lying to her parents became more and more difficult, and Ron’s fear for George was a palpable thing. She remained in therapy, as per the strict instructions of Molly Weasley. And try as she might, there was no potion that could banish her nightmares forever, nor the subtle tremors that ran through her if someone so much as raised a wand in her direction. It was normal, her therapist assured her. She had been tortured. She had been in battles. She couldn’t expect to walk away from that as if it was nothing. Sometimes, this knowledge proved to be of little comfort.

But she had no intentions of giving in to her past. She had been sorted into Gryffindor, after all.

Since she routinely filled up notepads with her findings, it only made sense to publish what she could. She released her first work in the autumn of 2000. It was a simple treatise on some of her more tame charms and jinxes, but the resulting income immediately secured her financial independence from her parents. And it was just the beginning. She made sure to keep some of her more dangerous discoveries private, but everything else she made open to the public. She hoped that some of her defensive spells might save a life some day, and she had real hopes for her healing draughts…

Before long, the Ministry offered her a position as an ‘independent researcher’. It was the exact same thing that she had been doing, with the small caveat that she had to inform the Ministry of where she was going and what she was getting up to. Being in the Ministry’s pay also required her to attend the occasional charity function and take photos with important people. She did not mind, since the events were often the sort she would have been interested in anyway.

She took the job gladly. It was not everyday that one was offered a position as a government funded scholar, after all. And the pay was absolutely marvellous.

For the first time in over a year, she came out of her academic mania and turned her attention back to what was happening in the world around her. She saw that Shacklebolt’s Ministry was making all sorts of changes; most of them for the good. She used what influence she had to better the lives of non human magical people and non purebloods. It was not as difficult as she might have expected. Most of the time all she had to do was be there, and people would be reminded of the War, and all the prejudices of times gone by, and promptly (if a little guiltily) start turning the wheels of progress as fast as they could in the right direction.

The possibilities were endless. She was making friends at the Ministry; an interesting position for her -a Mudblood and a former activist- to be in. Every day she felt more and more secure in herself, her abilities and her power.

If she had been asked, she would have been hard pressed to recall a time when she had ever felt happier, or more accomplished.

It was at that point, naturally, that the nightmare began.

 


	2. 'You Know What They Say...'

 

_The first time was at the Chattering Teapot in Warlock’s Way. Circa 2001._

 

She couldn’t remember the exact day the Golden Age of her life came to a close, but she could remember the sound.

It was the friendly chiming of a shop door bell.

The tea shop was known for being the sort of place you could get a good deal of work done. Something about charmed seat-cushions, apparently. She had been compiling a report to the Committee of Experimental Charms between luxurious sips of hot chocolate. She wasn’t really concerned. Her justifications were sound. Her reputation, as always, would precede her. She would have it handed in before the end of the day, and she doubted anyone in the Ministry would give the report a second glance.

Hearing the little jingle, she looked up.

It was, in hindsight, one of the most foolish things she had ever done. For into the room stepped Lucius Malfoy.

For a moment she was so shocked that she could hardly believe her eyes. Lucius Malfoy, here? But even with that clipped, modern hair and the shadow of stubble across his face, it was undeniably him. The man who had chosen to serve Voldemort, had _sheltered Voldemort_ , because he couldn’t stand to live in a world where people like her existed. People with magical gifts, but no magical heritage.

Or, as his kind usually referred to them, Mudbloods.

 

* * *

 

 She remembered the last time she had seen him. Not his face, exactly, but his shoes.

She had been lying on her back, all the fire and strength wrung out of her by the Cruciatus Curse. Bellatrix had gone away to question… someone. Griphook. She couldn’t even feel sorry for him. All she could feel was relief. Relief for herself. Because there wasn’t any pain, except for the burning in her arm, and that barely even counted. Relief because Bellatrix was gone, and maybe that meant someone would help her.

She didn’t entertain for a moment the possibility that any of the Malfoys would risk their necks to save her. She was desperate, not unhinged. But perhaps they could give her a healing draught. A kind word. Something to cover up where she had wet herself. Anything. Anything at all.

She heard footsteps coming towards her, and even now her brain was whirring. The tread was too heavy to be Draco, too dull to be Narcissa’s. Lucius, then.

Her tears of pain and shame dried up in an instant. Perhaps she should have been more afraid of him, but she couldn’t spare the slightest bit of terror for anyone she didn’t think would torture her, and as much as he was a loathsome man and her enemy, she couldn’t imagine that Lucius Malfoy would Crucio her.

She saw his shoes come into view. She could no more have turned her head to look up at him than she could have pushed a boulder up a mountain, but she wanted to.

A long moment passed. She could hear Narcissa whispering frantically to Draco, the words too fast for her to make out. Lucius said nothing. Did nothing. What was he thinking, looking down at her? Wasn’t he at least going to say something? Some nasty insult, some hateful remark about her parents. But he never did say anything. She might as well have been a log at his feet, for all the attention he paid her.

She licked her lips and tried to speak, if only to ask him to help her sit up, but nothing came out.

Just as she thought she could muster up the energy to turn her head to look up at him, he walked away.

And then Bellatrix came back, and whatever Griphook had told her had made her very, very angry.

She didn’t think of Lucius Malfoy again for a long time.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly she wanted to be sick. He hadn’t even noticed her. He was too busy sitting down with his friend - a mousy, spectacled little man whom Hermione recognised but could not quite put a name to.

Despite her rising panic, she found herself curious as to what a known criminal and rank snob like him would be doing here. People like Lucius Malfoy didn’t spend time in cafes run by common wizards without good reason.

But it was the strangest thing. She could hear snatches of what the nondescript, official looking man was saying; some ordinary, if a little awed, greeting and a polite enquiry after his health. But when Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, all she could hear was the desperate, frantic sound of her own screams as his sister-in-law tortured her.

The little man laughed nervously at whatever Malfoy had said, and took out a little notebook from his breast-pocket.

“- such a long way.” She heard him mumbling over the thumping of her heart. “... The press will be there, of course…”

Malfoy smiled- smiled! Like a normal person! And said something back, and out came the sound of her heels drumming against flagstones, her head grinding as she arched her back against the savage, dreadful agony, her fingernails splintering as Bellatrix laughed, and laughed-

Her mug started to rattle warningly on it’s saucer, her anxiety taking on a will of its own. Hermione sucked in a whistling breath between clenched teeth. **Control**. Control was everything. This was just a flashback, and far from her first. Her eyes stang with sweat and her stomach cramped viciously, but fear was nothing she couldn’t overcome. She had been completely unprepared for this, and it had taken her by surprise, but all she had to do was breathe, breathe through it and remember where she was. She was safe. She was-

“Oh, Merlin! Is that Hermione Granger?”

At the sound of her name, Malfoy’s golden head snapped in her direction, and _saw her_ , and for a long moment they simply looked at each other. Her, frozen in her seat and staring, and him, somehow looking every bit as appalled to see her.

The screaming and the drumming had stopped, at least, and it was all just silence. All except for the whispering and tittering of her admirers, who were filling the shop at an alarming rate. Still, she could barely pay them any attention. Malfoy’s horror was oddly soothing.

One of the bolder ones stepped forward, blissfully ignorant of what she had interrupted.

“Um, Ms Granger?” The girl wore a Hufflepuff scarf, and was probably young enough to be a First Year. She thrust a SPEW badge in Hermione’s direction with trembling hands. “Will you please, um, sign this? I read all your essays and-”

Hermione forced herself to focus on the girl and dredged up a smile from somewhere. “Certainly. Sit down, won’t you? There’s plenty of room.” The resounding squeals of delight helped her breath come a little easier, and soon, she was being politely interrogated by a group of young students, each of whom aspired to grow up to be ‘just like her.’

By the time she was able to wrench her eyes back in the direction of his table again, he was gone. The man he had been talking to stood in the open door, calling for him with a woebegone expression.

She let him go.

 

* * *

 

As many young women are wont to do when faced with something terrifying and confusing, Hermione ran straight to her mother. But since her actual mother knew nothing of Lucius Malfoy and very little about the events of the past ten years, she soon found herself in the Burrow. Never mind that she and Ron had stopped seeing each other months ago. Molly Weasley was, for all intents and purposes, the only mother she had.

Hermione had no sooner confided in her than Molly began whirling around the cluttered kitchen in a red-fury, violently slamming plate after plate of fried eggs and bacon on the table, all the while cooing sympathy and endearments to the frazzled young witch.

“I thought you knew all about it, Hermione.” Arthur said, patting her shoulder. “He’s been all over the papers for months. ‘A reformed man’, they say.” Arthur made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. It sounded alien coming from a man who had always been so kind to her, but Lucius and Arthur had hated each other since before she had known she was a witch.

“I knew he wasn’t in Azkaban, but I didn’t think…” _I didn’t think he was just out there, walking around. I didn’t think he would be welcome in Wizarding London after everything he had done._

“He ratted out all his friends, remember? Put a lot of Death Eaters and their Ministry mates in Azkaban. We used to joke about it. ‘The Golden Snitch’, we called him.” Ron prompted gently.

She _did_ remember that, come to think of it. But it seemed a long time ago. She hadn’t really given it a lot of thought, being so wrapped up in her work, but she had always assumed that the Malfoy patriarch would have retreated from the public eye altogether, like his former wife had.

“It’s not right.” She heard herself sniffling. “It’s not right that someone who did those things can just pretend that nothing happened. He looked-” _He looked happy. He had been smiling right before he had realised she was there._ His smile was still at the forefront of her mind. It made her so angry she felt her fingers itching for her wand.

“Hermione, dear.” Molly said. “No one wants him in Azkaban more than we do. If we had it our way…” Her face hardened, and Hermione knew that she was thinking about Fred, and suddenly Hermione regretted ever bringing this to her. Molly held it together well, but she had her own grief to deal with.

She brushed her tears away and tried to smile. “It’s all right, really. I was just a little surprised.”

Ron looked at her with his kind, dear smile, and for a moment she wanted to hug him more than anything. But it was too soon for that sort of intimacy between them, and she knew it.

He squeezed her hand, though, and that gave her strength. “The Burrow’s always here, Hermione. If you need us.”

 

* * *

 

_The second time was three weeks later, at St Mungos_

 

The reception room was filled with dozens of witches and wizards, all awaiting the announcement regarding the hospital’s future. There were too many of them to fit, and as they filed in the Welcome Witch gave them a scowl that sent the less courageous among them cowering into a corner. Hermione could see why she was so upset. The presence of dozens of strangers was clearly agitating some of the more distressed patients, who were all being shunted off to a curtained area to one side of the room by frazzled-looking, querulous Healers.

Hermione, Luna and Harry (protected from the fervour of his fans by a Polyjuice potion) clustered around Neville as if to shield him from danger. Though no one here wished them harm, they were all worried for their friend. There was nothing in the world more important to Neville than St Mungos, and St Mungos had been struggling for a long time.

All around them, Hermione could hear people whispering to one another, trying to guess why the announcement had been called. She had ideas of her own. Could they be relocating to a different facility; one cheaper to maintain and not in such need of repair?

Or worse, were they finally going to admit that enough was enough and start turning away patients? Even to her untrained eye, she could see that the Healers were spread far too thin for all the work that needed doing. And every day she heard of another young veteran being relinquished to their care, scarred beyond the ability of their parents to ignore the situation. Where would they go, if Mungos couldn’t take them?

And what about Neville’s parents? The Healers had all but told Neville that they would never recover. Would he have to become their carer from now on?

Hermione prayed that that didn’t happen, but if it did, he wouldn’t be shouldering the responsibility by himself. She and Harry had managed to get a brief moment alone before making the journey here. If Mungos couldn’t take care of Neville’s parents anymore, they would help him in whatever way they could.

The Head of Mungos, Mrs Mayweather, finally made her entrance by apparating right onto a little platform. The grand effect was somewhat spoiled by the fact that she was still in the process of taking off a heavy potioneering apron and gloves; something she apparently found very challenging. Somewhere, a camera clicked and a flash lit up the room.

Hermione and Luna shared a determined glance. Behind her, Hermione heard Harry murmuring to Neville, “It’ll be alright, mate.”

But the news wasn’t bad. Far from it. Mrs Mayweather favoured the anxious crowd with a jubilant smile. She talked for some time about all the changes they were going to make to the hospital. There was going to be a new wing. Improvements to the plumbing and hygiene. Existing doctors would be trained in more modern methods, and new nurses would be hired. She thanked everyone for being so patient and understanding in the troubling last few years, for continuing to entrust the facility with the health of their loved ones.

This was going to be, Mrs Mayweather assured the crowd and the hovering press, a new era for Mungos. A kinder, better era.

Neville was so happy he actually cheered, and he wasn’t the only one. People started hugging each other and whispering excitedly amongst themselves. She saw a young father sag with relief before bursting into grateful tears.

But Hermione had her doubts. It all sounded very expensive. Sneaking a quick glance at Luna, she saw they shared the same misgivings. If funding was so easily come by, this all would have been done long ago. How could Mungos possibly hope to afford any of this?

No sooner had she thought the question than the answer came.

Mrs Mayweather beamed. “Please welcome our benefactor, the Honourable Lord Malfoy!”

Of course. She hadn’t seen him for nearly four years, and now here he was; twice in the space of a month. Harry sent her a concerned glance, but she didn’t notice.

If she hadn’t been here for Neville, she might have just apparated away. But as it was, she had to settle for merely wishing the world would end.

The crowd rippled and parted. Lucius Malfoy stepped onto the little platform as if he had every right to be there. He looked… good. His clothes were elegant, but fashionable. He was clean shaven. He didn’t have that haunted look he had worn at the Battle of Hogwarts, or during the aftermath. He greeted the Head of Mungos with a smile and a firm handshake, as if they were equals. Which just couldn’t be true, since wasn’t Mrs Mayweather a Muggleborn?

He turned to address the crowd and said… something. She heard the occasional word. ‘ _compassion’, ‘community’_ and _‘rehabilitation.’_ He sounded more like a politician than an aristocrat, but he had always been eloquent, hadn’t he? It was part of what made him so good at hurting people.

Somewhere, she could feel the despair growing, but it felt so far away.

A few people clapped. More just looked confused. She heard someone, a younger witch, by the sound of it, ask who he was. But not everyone was so ignorant, or so blind to the hypocrisy of the situation. Mungos was filled with people who had been broken by Death Eaters. She could hear some angry mutters, see some people shake their heads. She heard one person mutter, none too quietly, that his being here was a disgrace, donation or no donation.  

But no one actually challenged him.

Her blood boiled. She had to say something! Somebody had to. She took a step forward, and Harry laid a calming hand on her shoulder. She settled for scowling at him instead, but her glares had no heart in them. What had happened to her, that Harry had to be the sensible one? Surely that was her job.

Meanwhile, Malfoy left the stage, leaving her alone with her confusion and her resentment.

 

* * *

 

Within a month, news had filtered through the Ministry that Lucius Malfoy had been appointed to the St Mungos board of directors. Apparently after all the donations he had been making, the board hadn’t felt it appropriate to refuse him. And as if that wasn’t enough, they were going to _name the new wing for him._

Hermione heard the news with an utter lack of surprise. Lucius Malfoy was, if nothing else, a survivor. He had abandoned his former master like a rat fleeing a sinking ship, and now he was trying to eke out a position for himself in this new world, by whatever means necessary. It was simply in Malfoy’s nature to be a shamelessly opportunistic, callous bastard.

She shouldn’t take it personally. She should not feel so offended on Neville’s behalf, especially when he did nothing but talk about how things were going to get better for his parents. She should be feeling happy for him, and for everyone who was going to benefit from Malfoy’s urge to climb the social ladder. But she just wasn’t.

Somewhere at the back of her throat, a scream was building, desperate to break free.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, thanks for reading and I wish you a happy Valentine's/Galentine's Day!
> 
> I want to apologise for how long this took to upload. Family drama + tricky editing makes for slow work... But we got there in the end, and I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> The next chapter is called 'Third Time's The Charm!' and it will be uploaded ASAP. The first draft is almost finished, just needs some work at the beginning and then we can dive into the editing process!Lastly, I would like to credit my editor (my boyfriend, Zen) for helping me with all the grammatical/sentence structure problems of this chapter. It was a mess, y'all. The reason this is even readable is because of his help. 
> 
> Thanks again, and see you next time!


	3. Third Time's the Charm!

 

Hermione was at home, trying to force down her breakfast, when a rather anxious looking owl pecked at her window.

Hermione recognised a Ministry owl when she saw one, and since it wasn't Shacklebolt's personal owl, she could only assume that it was about official business. She dropped her wards and opened the window with an idle wave of her hand. Taking the letter, she gave it a cursory glance. Some sort of gala, if the ornamentation was anything to go by.

The invitation was gilded and charmed to smell like kindness. Her first instinct was to set it on fire. She was not in the mood.

Hermione tossed the envelope on the pile of all the other correspondence she had been ignoring, and there it stayed for three days.

But despite her self-imposed isolation from the world, it was plain to see that she was getting nothing meaningful done. Inspiration was simply nowhere to be found. None of her new spells seemed to work, and her concentration was so poor that even charms she had mastered months ago were almost impossible to cast successfully. Her daily tradition of practicing in her duelling room lapsed altogether, for fear of the dangerous misfires that bad nerves and a clouded mind could bring.

Even her rest was fruitless. With the help of a few potions she was able to sleep, but her dreams were harrowing enough that she came to hate the nights even more than the long, dreary days.

She wasn't completely oblivious. Something was wrong with her, and she knew exactly what it was. She had been focussing too much on the past. On one facet of her past in particular, if she was being completely honest with herself.

Bellatrix. And him. Mostly him. Imposing himself in her life, her projects, as if he had a right to be there. No doubt gloating in his manor at all the attention he was garnering for himself. What made it even worse was that she could imagine just how happy he would be if he knew she was wasting time and losing sleep thinking about him. He would probably congratulate himself on a job well done.

After all, for a certain type of person,  _a narcissist,_ bad attention was better than none at all.

All the while, the letter sat unopened.

She might never have opened it, if not for the fact that she was bored witless. That, and the fact that she could only afford her luxurious lodgings because of her Ministry wage. To be reclusive was one thing, but to blatantly ignore a call to work was another. She was well aware that making an appearance on nights such as this was very much a part of her job. Expressing her unequivocal support of Shacklebolt's government and loudly calling for more progress was every bit as crucial to her paycheck as digging up old magic was - if not moreso.

She opened it, almost gagging on the stench that spilled out. They had really overdone it this time.

As she read the letter, she saw why. It was the annual fundraiser for homeless house elves. The Ministry seemed to be finally taking their plight more seriously, after all. It was to be held on the 15th of July. She felt a brief twinge of guilt. It was only a few days away, but she could still make it. It wasn't as though she had any other appointments.

Shacklebolt had sent her a copy of the guestlist as well. He certainly was thorough. Her own name was already on the list, right up the top. A short summary of all the awards she had received, the services she had performed for wizards and non-wizards alike. She was to be the guest of honour. A small smile curved her lips. And right beneath her name, in noticeably smaller print-

' _The Honourable Lord Lucius Malfoy, Board Member of St Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, and Chairman of Wizard Advocates for Interspecies Liberation (W.A.I.L) will be in attendance.'_

Her happiness shrivelled up and died. Lucius Malfoy, Chairman of W.A.I.L? Her hands were shaking. With infinite gentleness, she put the guestlist down. The letter sat on her counter like some sort of horrific natural disaster, compelling and distressing in equal measure. She could not tear her eyes from it.

That was  _her_ cause. Well, she hadn't exactly invented it, but she had started it all with S.P.E.W. Lucius Malfoy didn't care about house elves, and giants, and all the other non-wizard folk. The scars she had seen on Dobby were proof of that. What right did he have to latch onto her movements, to feed off of her good work when Dobby would have died a slave, if not for Harry? He didn't believe in any of it.

It was, at last, the final straw.

She could not afford to put this off any longer. She and Lucius Malfoy were going to have words, and the gala was as good a time and place as any.

There would be little risk of her being talked out of it. Harry never came to these things. Too uptight, too boring for a man in pursuit of a thrill. Besides, his presence had an unfortunate tendency to stop everyone from doing all the good work they should be doing and fixate on him instead. And Ron? Ron had promised to take the Cannons to the World Cup finals next year. His feet barely even touched the ground these days. The idea that he would take time out of his gruelling training schedule for a gala was laughable.

Which meant that if she wanted to put this to rest, her friends wouldn't be there to stop her. She could go right up to Malfoy and tell him in no uncertain terms never to come anywhere near her again.

And if the dark wizard refused? If he called her on her bluff?

Well. She was sure she could come up with something.

 

* * *

 

It was the night of July 15th, and Hermione could only regret that she had ignored the letter for so long. Her reticent attitude had lost her valuable preparation time.

Her hair she had left a riot of dark curls down her back. The dress was Gryffindor-red and every bit as beautiful as would be expected of her, but more important by far was the rest of the ensemble. Drops of ruby for her ears, bands of gold for her wrists and fingers. Altogether, they made for three Silver Shield charms, a flame-freezing charm, one expelliarmus-negating charm (albeit somewhat temperamental) and a dowsing charm that ought to grow warm if she drew near anything concealed (very tempermental).

She looked herself over in the mirror with quiet satisfaction. One couldn't be too careful when dealing with Dark Wizards, even if they  _were_ pretending to be reformed. You never knew what they might take it into their heads to do, or what manner of dangerous magic they might throw at you. She remembered Dolohov's curse with a pained grimace, and pressed a hand to her chest. Back then, she hadn't had the luxury of the resources that she had available to her now. Or the time. Knowing where and when Lucius Malfoy would be had given her the advantage.

As far as she could tell, the biggest obstacle would be getting past security. But she believed she could do it. If the Aurors had invented a detection spell that could make it past her wards, then they knew something she didn't.

Rereading the invitation just to be sure, she fixed the location in her mind, grabbing her clutch-bag as she did so. Her wand (amongst many other things) were secreted away within it.

Steeling herself, she disapparated.

 

* * *

 

She arrived in a brightly lit hall filled with chattering people. Witches and Wizards of all creeds packed the entry hall, all dressed for the occasion. She was pleased to see that there were several free elves talking amongst themselves.

An elegantly dressed witch made a beeline for her almost the moment her heels touched the ground, a silver dish clutched firmly to her chest. She held it out brazenly.

Far from offending her, the unprompted plea for a donation helped ground her. It was considered polite for affluent witches and wizards to make at least a small donation at these kinds of events, as a sign of good faith. There was something comforting about traditions; particularly ones that helped people. Hermione opened her purse and summoned up a fistful of galleons, dropping them in the bowl.

"Generous as always!" The attendant chirped happily, but Hermione's thoughts had moved onto what she knew would come next. Up ahead, she spied three wizards casually leaning against the grand archway leading into the gala. Young and utterly self-possessed, they all wore Ministry-approved casual clothes and arrogant smiles. She knew their type. Aurors.

The trio made a great show of checking her, casting convoluted revealing charms and weaving negating hexes over her, but their hearts were not in it. One of them was so busy trying to cajole an autograph out of her that his spell failed altogether. The others did not seem to notice his mistake. They were just about finished when she grandly summoned a quill and offered the three of them her autograph. In the resulting tumult, her bag went unchecked, and they waved her through the entrance proper with giddy smiles. Her anxiety eased off, just a little. She had made it.

The main hall was an exercise in unrestrained extravagance. Of course there were the standard chandeliers, but there were also fountains of liquid gold, and along the walls, great witches and wizards peered down at the gathering from the comfort of their paintings, as hundreds of magical folk mingled below. It was every bit as opulent as she had come to expect, and she spent a long, cynical minute observing that all the homeless elves in england could surely be sheltered here, and for a fraction of the cost.

The guests who normally would have mobbed her must have sensed her mercurial mood, since they were all keeping a respectful distance. But that did not stop them from staring. She hailed the closest waiter - a flamboyantly dressed House Elf - and took a tall glass of something blue and broiling from him. She downed it, and, ignoring his squawks of protest, reached for another. For courage.

Soon enough, she did not know why she had felt so uncertain in the first place. He could hardly harm her in front of all these people, could he? Newly committed, she set off.

She moved from one chamber to the next, hunting for him. People saw her and a few tried to approach her, even called her by name, but she did not see them. To her eyes, they were all drab and indistinct. They simply didn't matter.

Where was he? Why hadn't he shown himself?

It occurred to her that he would be where the most important people were. She was guided by the eb and flow of conversation, by the glimpses of functionaries, sometimes by sheer intuition.

Eventually she came to a squinting stop, the momentary dizziness at the impossible sight throwing her off balance. She had come to a darkened room lit only by the light of floating candles, casting most of the guests into shadow. Statues walked about the room with fluid grace, pausing here and there to speak with guests. Most disorientating of all, enchantments had warped the space, making it far larger than the building

Then she saw him.

It would have been hard  _not_ to. Lucius stood in the center of a small knot of people; tall and imposing. He leaned on his cane, but she did not think he really needed it. The candlelight of the room lit up his platinum hair into radiance, and gave the queer effect of turning his grey suit into silver. His mouth was curled into a gracious smile.

Everyone around him looked important. She could even recognise a few of them. Some high-ranking Aurors. A Head of Office or two. Some of them she had never seen before, but she knew their type. Old money. Bloodlines as long as her arm. The sort of people whose influence was felt, not seen.

And each and every one of them, fawning over him. Looking up at him, with his tailored suit and silver-topped cane and shining hair. Their smiles were forced, and they  _cringed_ more than stood; as if shying away from a raging fire. But still they courted him, like dogs begging for scraps. On the outskirts of the group, several outsiders cast covetous looks in his direction, clearly hoping that someone would invite them into the conversation.

And just like that, she was  _alive_ , sharp, and keen with hate. The miasma that had hung over her for weeks evaporated. She did not think.

Beside her, a serene-faced golden statue stooped down to her and tried to open up a conversation about virtue. Ignoring it, she made for Lucius, filled with something she hadn't felt since that horrible day in the tea shop. Purpose.

_Across the crowded room, Kingsley Shacklebolt saw Hermione Granger. His relief at seeing her was almost immediately stifled by his concern. She looked a little unsteady on her feet, and he doubted that it was just from the heels. She was utterly fixated on… something, and more than one person had to dive out of her way to avoid being trampled by the petite witch. At first he was only confused, then curious, and then he saw where she was going. A great dread came over him, and he felt rooted in one spot for a long, fateful moment. Long enough for Hermione to reach Lucius Malfoy._

The crowd of sycophants parted for her with barely a moment's hesitation. Perhaps they recognised her. Or perhaps they simply knew that she meant trouble.

Strangely, Lucius didn't seem to recognise her at first. He made only the slightest turn of his head in her direction, as if nothing could possibly be more important than his present conversation. But she could still feel his attention on her. His lips pursed thoughtfully, and then his eyes moved up to her face. He froze.

"Ms Granger? What a… pleasure." He said, turning to give her his full attention. His voice was thin. Strangled. It fascinated her, cutting through the fog of her drunken brain like a hot knife. His voice was no longer a cacophony of torture. Nor was it the measured tones of a consummate schemer. Just the reedy, contrived accent of a man who had been waited on hand and foot his entire life.

And underneath that, she could hear a thrumming tone of fear.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask you. If you're not too busy?" She wore a lion's smile, and saw his friends take a step back. She took a long, squinting look at them and committed their faces, the names of those she knew, to memory.

Keenly aware that his allies were watching, he managed a smile and spread out his hands in a little gesture of welcoming. So, he did have a backbone after all. "Not at all. In fact, I was hoping that we could-"

He petered out as she moved closer to him. Only a wand away. He drew back a little, and she thought she could see the confusion in those grey eyes. That, and his disgust. He was still repulsed by her, even after all these years.

Let him be disgusted. She didn't need to be admired by a man like him. Her lopsided smile grew. Suddenly, all thoughts of telling him to leave her alone vanished. "Lovely. You see, I was wondering, if I had been pureblooded, would you have let Bellatrix LeStrange torture me?"

His eyes bulged with disbelief, as if he couldn't believe she had asked him that. Was it really that strange? She had always wanted to know. In her rather inebriated state, it seemed more strange that they could be in the same room and  _not_ talk about it.

And they had such a lot to talk about.

Finally, he said, in a low voice. "Ms Granger, you must understand-"

"Yes! That's right, isn't it? You tortured Ollivander! He's pureblooded, isn't he? That makes me feel a bit better." Her head swam as she tried to reason it out. It was all rather complicated. "I think?"

In a much, much louder voice, he said, looking around the room, "I did  _not_ torture Garrick Ollivander. And for that matter, Ms Granger," He continued in a furious hiss, leaning down to her, "I did not torture you either! I have never laid a hand on you! Do not hold me responsible for that-" his mouth twisted in repugnance, "that  _madwomans_ crimes!"

She could feel her wand, which had once belonged to Bellatrix herself, tucked safely away in her purse. It felt heavy. Even a little warm. Was it shifting about in there, or was she only imagining it? She thought it might be. She had never felt so closely connected to it before.

Could it be that the wand hated Malfoy as much as she did? What a funny thought.

"Oh, you had nothing to do with it? So I imagined the whole thing? It must have been some other mansion I was being tortured in that day. Maybe your wife and son were there, sorry,  _ex-wife_ and son, for some other reason."

"Leave my son out of this." Lucius snarled, and had she been sober, she might have turned and ran, wand or no wand, at the look in his eyes. It was like a little window into the past had opened, and instead of seeing the man he was now, she saw the man he used to be, when he was the Dark Lord's right hand.

Hermione was far too busy with such thoughts to notice that the two of them had become a little island. All around, people were peering over fans, whispering behind their hands to one another, or, in several cases, openly scribbling notes.

But Hermione had only just hit her stride. "Leave him out of it? Why not? He was just a child. Of course, Harry, Ron and me were just children too when we fought off Voldemort, but Draco is another thing. He couldn't have known any better, could he, with such a cowardly excuse for a father?"

He took one step towards her. Just one. But by some supreme force of will, he held himself back. Barely. She could see what it cost him. Could see his rage straining to break loose. Good.

She couldn't stop railing at him. "Even Narcissa, I could forgive her. She saved Harry. She did something. And Bellatrix?" Her voice wavered and cracked at that name. "She was too mad to know better. But  _you_? You didn't lift a finger against him! He was in your house for how long?" She laughed shrilly. God, how it hurt. "That  _monster_ was in your house for how long, torturing and killing innocent people, and you just stood there and watched him do it? How could you? How could you be so cruel? So cowardly and so cruel?"

At that he drew himself to his full height, and for a moment she thought that he would strike her. Instead he said coldly, "My wife and  _son_ were at risk. You could never understand the responsibility, the legacy-"

He took a breath. She thought she could see the anger flow out of him, leaving only cold determination. She mourned it as she would the loss of a limb. He addressed someone in the crowd, one of his friends, and said something she couldn't hear. They nodded and vanished. Lucius turned from her, and she realised that he was about to walk away. He was going to leave her here.

A swell of desperation almost knocked her off her feet. "Tell me! Tell me why you hate us so much that you didn't try to stop him. Or stop her when she-" The memory arose and she was very nearly sick. "Tell me right now, or I swear I'll-" She felt her wand burning, and suddenly the idea of him just walking away, of getting away with everything  _again,_ was a stab in her gut.

The wand was in her hand the second she thought of it. She had always been a quick draw. A rush went through her. It felt like victory. The crowd recoiled as if from a rearing snake at the sight.

Their horror would have baffled her, had she noticed it. Fear had never been more alien to her than in that moment. She felt like herself again. Like she had in the war. Everything had been confusing and frantic, but just being able to  _act_ , to take her life into her own hands, was glorious.

Malfoy paid no attention to the appalled gasps of the crowd. Perhaps he thought he was above it all. She was going to prove him wrong.

"Fight me." She heard herself saying. Her voice was quiet but resolute.

"I beg your par-" He turned. Finally. And saw the wand, aimed right at his chest, mere strides away. Dark, crooked wood, like a harpies claw. She wondered, dimly, if he recognised it.

A taut, haggard look came over his face. For a moment he said nothing, just looked from the wand, to her face, and back again. Finally, so quietly she could barely hear him, he said, "Put that down."

She shook her head. It made her stagger, just a little. "Draw yours. Go on. It's in the cane, isn't it?" She flicked her wand to it, urging him on.

He squared his shoulders in defiance. "I will do no such thing. Put that away. Now. This behaviour is-." His jaw clenched. "beneath you."

"I don't care." She smiled, because it was true. "Not in the slightest. Duel me right now,  _Lord Malfoy._ Me being a child didn't matter in the Department of Mysteries, did it? I'm challenging you. Are you going to run away again?"

His cold eyes scanned the crowd, and behind them she thought she could see the gears turning. It was like she could hear his thoughts. Could he refuse, in front of all these people? Would he risk humiliation at the hands of a Mudblood?

Would a victory, under these circumstances, even be worth winning? Or would it bring him more controversy than he was willing to bear?

_Kingsley was less than ten feet away, but this was the spectacle of a lifetime and people would not move for him without shoving, Minister or not. Finally he reached Hermione, clapped one hand on her shoulder, and hissed in her ear;_

"Granger,  _what_ are you doing? Leave him alone, for Merlin's sake!"

Hermione ignored him without a second thought. "Fight me. You  _fucking_ coward, fight me!" God, she was crying. She didn't know when she had started.

But Lucius wasn't even looking at her. "Take care of this." He gestured at her with his cane, glaring at Shacklebolt. "Such behaviour from a Ministry employee…" He finished with a contemptuous  _tut-tut_.

Her vision shrank. The borders of her world hemmed in until they were big enough to fit just one man.

She tore herself free of Shacklebolt, lunged, and drew back her fist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be coming soon, I swear on Lucius' Luscious Locks. It just needs editing now. I am so sorry for the huge delay. Your thoughts on the chapter are always welcome!


	4. Actions Have Consequences, Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hermione has a very bad time of it.

 

_ The following day, in the office of the Minister for Magic. _

 

She was no stranger to the Minister’s chambers. She had been here only a few months ago, helping Kingsley revise the Servitude of Magical Creatures Act. It had all felt very casual. Plates of scones filled every square inch of the table, the door left wide open to let in a snowy breeze, and Kingsley had been wearing a suspiciously familiar sweater. 

Today, there were no scones. The door was firmly closed, and charmed for good measure. And Kingsley was most decidedly  _ not  _ wearing a handmade sweater.

She had been assured that this was just a conversation between colleagues. A mandatory one. It was most definitely  _ not  _ a trial. The owl-delivered letter had been very clear on that. But with the change of atmosphere and her sitting on one side of the table, and the Minister and his Senior Assistant, Felipe Rosier, sitting so sternly on the other, it very nearly felt like one.

Assistant Rosier, who was really more of a Deputy First Minister than anything else, was looking at her with righteous indignation written all over his face.

“You  _ assaulted _ a peer of the realm.” Rosier said. If he was trying to keep the fury from his voice, he was doing a very poor job of it. “In front of dozens of members of the wizarding community. At a  _ charity function.  _ What do you have to say for yourself, Ms Granger?”

Under the shroud of occlumency, she thought,  _ It wasn’t the first time I’ve punched a Malfoy, and I hope it won’t be the last. _

But aloud, she said, “The same peer of the realm who orchestrated the opening of the Chamber of Secrets?” Rosier squinted at her in confusion, and she changed tacks, realising he was a little too young to know about that. “Lucius Malfoy and all his friends are responsible for the deaths of dozens of wizards. His crimes are a matter of public record. Should I really be punished for one small mistake, when he’s never been held accountable for all of the horrible things he did?”

It was not a very good defence, but it was really the best that she could come up with on such short notice. It also happened to be mostly true. Lucius Malfoy had never gotten what he deserved. Unlike so many of his Death Eater allies, Lucius had charisma, a distinguished family tree and a never ending pot of gold to back him up. He had only gotten one year of Azkaban before he had been broken out, and that seemed to be the end of it. He had never even been asked to complete his sentence, let alone answer for the crimes he had committed  _ after  _ he was released.

The injustice of that bothered her almost as much as everything he had done to her. Even with Voldemort dead, the value of Malfoy’s pureblood heritage still counted in his favour. She wouldn’t have turned away her invitation to Hogwarts for anything, but the wizarding world frightened her very badly sometimes.

Shacklebolt sighed deeply. “Hermione, the entire Malfoy family was pardoned for their actions during the War. Lucius’ cooperation with the Ministry after the death of the Dark Lord won back a lot of trust. And his work for St Mungos, and with magical non-human persons, has been really-” Seeing her lips purse, he coughed awkwardly. “Well. Physical assault, in the eyes of wizard law, is treated as-” His face twisted in distaste, “The closest Muggle equivalent would be spitting. It’s uncivilised. If he decides to file a suit against you…”

Her breath hitched in her chest. There it was. The slap on the wrist hanging over her. Did they expect her to cower in fear at the prospect of Lucius Malfoy coming after her? She had faced greater dangers before her eighteenth birthday.

The glare she levelled at Shacklebolt could have melted dragonbone.

“If Lucius Malfoy tries to take me to court, Minister, I’ll make him regret it.”

_ I’ll jinx the next seven generations of Malfoys. I’ll drag him through the courts, and when I’m done with that, I’ll drag him through the press. I will put every crime he has ever committed back on paper, for everyone to see and remember. I will destroy every single simpering official who has let that snake wriggle back into a position of influence. I’ll have his lordship taken away from him. _

_ God help him if he tries to sue me. I will call Harry Potter. _

Rosier was visibly unimpressed by her implied threat and almost argued the point, but Kingsley spared him a warning glance, and he shut right up.

The Minister for Magic wasn’t stupid. He knew full well that for the promise of Hermione Granger’s first exclusive interview, there wasn’t a newspaper in print that wouldn’t dedicate itself to defaming the Ministry and calling for his immediate resignation. His position was far from secure, and between the two of them, it was obvious which one was more well liked. Her contributions to magic and her role in improving wizard-law had made her a household name in her own right.

And then there was all the rest. The fact that she had been instrumental to the preservation of their way of life. The fact that she was Harry Potter’s best friend. She was the role model of half the population, and a saviour to everyone else.

Compared to that, what was the Minister for Magic, really? He had been of great help to them during the war, and Hermione could never forget that, but the public were more fickle by far. As far as most people were concerned, Kingsley was just an ex auror who had been in the right place at the right time. An ex auror who had made changes that rankled the traditionalists, but had no particular glories of his own to back him up.

Turning to her again, Kingsley put on his widest, warmest smile. “Hermione. We are on your side. The entire wizarding world is on your side.”

Hermione thought sourly,  _ I should think so, since Harry, Ron and I saved the entire wizarding world, while wizards twice our age cowered under their beds. _

He went on, encouraged by her silence. “You’ve made us all very proud. But if we want to have peace, we all have to make compromises. We can’t, and I hope you’ll excuse the phrase, go on a witch-hunt against every one of the Dark Lord’s former supporters. If we did, there wouldn’t be enough wizards left to run a government!”

The words hung in the air, painful and undeniably true.

She let out a breath. “Compromise didn’t win us the war, Minister.”

“No,” he agreed, “but it might just help get us through the next decade. Please, Hermione. You are both pillars of the community. We can’t have you attacking each other every time you cross paths.”

She swallowed a snarl at that. Barely. “A few charitable donations does  _ not  _ make him a pillar of the community, Minister.”

Kingsley gave a great sigh and leaned back in his chair. He looked exhausted, and for the first time, she found herself feeling sorry for the Minister for Magic.

Rosier coughed. “Ms Granger, the fact remains that without Lord Malfoy’s help, many Death Eaters would still roam free. Some of them would still be in very powerful positions, and the laws we’ve been able to pass, the progress we’ve made…” He shrugged helplessly. “We cannot allow Ministry employees to assault former Death Eaters in public without  _ some  _ kind of restitution. Do you know how dangerous a precedent that is? There are former Death Eaters out there who genuinely regret what they have done. They look up to Lord Malfoy as an inspiration.”

A wave of horror washed over her at the very idea. “An inspiration? Him?”

“It might be hard for you to understand. You, Ms Granger, are on the right side of history. But there are many witches and wizards who aren’t. They toe the line, and some of them are genuinely reforming themselves. Do you know why?”

“To avoid a life sentence in Azkaban would be my first guess, but-”

“ _ Because _ , Ms Granger, this government has shown them that if they keep their more- ah,  _ traditional  _ views to themselves, they can be allowed to re-enter society. Just as Lord Malfoy has. Not be hated, and reviled. Otherwise, what motivation do they have not to slip into their old ways?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Their motivation is basic morality, Assistant Rosier. Right and Wrong.”

He ignored her retort, but she could see a blush creeping up his neck. “If someone who once served the Dark Lord, whether under duress or not, is not entitled to the same protection as everyone else once they have made amends, do you not think that sends a message to the rest of the populace? You are aware, of course, that the Dark Mark still remains on those who served? And anyone can view the registers at Azkaban, the newspaper reports...” He shrugged helplessly. “You are not the only one who has a grudge, Ms Granger. It would mean a bloodbath. It could mean another war.”

She found that she couldn’t immediately reject what he had said. Could he have a point? She had been summoned to the Ministry practically the moment she had woken up, and she had been so preoccupied with her embarrassment at everything she had so publicly blurted out and panic about how she might be punished, that she hadn’t really thought about how other people might suffer because of what she had done.

She didn’t believe for a moment that Lucius Malfoy was truly reformed. But what about the others? People like Xenophilius Lovegood, who had only helped Voldemort because his daughter had been taken captive and he had wanted to protect her? And hadn’t even Ollivander given information to Voldemort, albeit unwillingly? The world was filled with witches and wizards who had only done what they had done under torture, or because their families were held hostage.

Did everyone who had ever helped Voldemort really deserve to be attacked without retribution, for as long as they lived? She believed in justice. She had to believe that people could make bad decisions and come back from it. But whether they had or hadn’t wasn’t up to her to decide. She was just one person. Innocent people shouldn’t have to suffer just so she could sleep at night.

And with that realisation, the last of her indignation left her. How could she have risked the peace that so many of her friends and mentors had given their lives for? It was inexcusable.

No matter how Malfoy had wronged her personally, no matter how much he deserved it, he just wasn’t worth it.

She turned her attention back to Shacklebolt, feeling more than a little ashamed of herself. “Are you asking for my resignation, Minister?”

“No! Merlin’s Beard, no.” He smiled a sad little smile. “And I wouldn’t accept it even if you offered. I was hoping that you would do what you always do. I can’t force you. But if there’s one thing we at the Ministry can count on, it would be your ability to do the right thing.”

Sensing the jaws of a rather nasty trap closing around her, she narrowed her eyes at both of the men and asked. “And what would that be, exactly?”

The Minister for Magic said firmly, but not unkindly, “Lead the way, Hermione Granger. Set a good example, and lead the way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter may be a while in coming as it needs a lot of work. Thanks as always for reading, and a special thank you to my Beta and Editor for their hard work!


	5. A Council of War

 

The Minister’s door closed behind her with a note of finality. Hermione looked up at the ceiling and took a deep, steadying breath before setting off down the long corridor. In light of Kingsley’s ultimatum, she needed time to think. She desperately needed to go home.

She had known there would be consequences when she woke up that morning, looked at her bloody knuckles, and remembered what she had done. What started out as a simple intention to remove a parasite from her world, had ended in a drunken tirade and a violent outburst.

She had assumed that Kingsley would fire her, perhaps send her on a sabbatical. At worst, call a Wizengamot and charge her with something small. But in the end, the Minister for Magic had asked for something almost as bad as her resignation.

He’d asked her to apologise to Malfoy in such a way that the wizarding world could see it. He wanted her show a face of forgiveness to those who had wronged her, and to ask forgiveness for herself. To erase the bad message she’d sent when she had assaulted a former Death Eater who, despite his past, hadn’t actually done anything to harm her that night.

There was no denying it; she’d lost the moral high ground to one of the most unscrupulous men left in Wizarding England. A decade after she’d first met him in Flourish & Blotts, and Lucius Malfoy still made her feel like a child.

And he had seen her cry. Again. Everyone in the room had seen it. That hurt worse than her knuckles.

Her therapist, when she started talking to him again, was going to have kittens.

Kingsley assured her that he would handle getting Lucius to agree to the whole thing, and that she was not to worry on that account. To that end, he had booked an appointment at Malfoy Manor that very afternoon.

She had tried to offer alternatives, had tried to wriggle out of it, but it was no good. Kingsley was adamant. She was going to have to apologise, and she had better make it look good.

She knew that she had gotten off lightly, considering that her selfish actions might have put innocent people in danger. It was just that she hated apologising for something she didn’t wholly regret. But if lives depended on it, she could swallow her morality, and yes, her pride too.

As she left the Ministry, she couldn’t help but notice the way that everyone was looking at her askance. Whispering amongst themselves the moment they thought she was out of earshot. She couldn’t blame them. Half of them would have been there at the gala last night. Still they all gave her a wide berth. Perhaps Kingsley had asked that she be given some privacy? Another thing she should be grateful to him for.

Hermione stepped out of her fireplace to the clamouring sound of the doorbell and a great insistent pounding. Her shoulders drooped in defeat. She was too exhausted for anger. Could the press have found out where she lived? So much for privacy.

Making her way to the door, she peered through the murky pane of the Who-Am-I? fixed across the peephole, and sighed with relief. Not reporters, and their auras were clear. No Polyjuice that she could see.

She opened the door and her whole family rushed in, arms filled with barrels of fudge and plates of cakes. Arthur and Molly, Ron and George, with Ginny and Harry bringing up the rear. They all wore concerned expressions, save Ron, who was grinning like an idiot and holding up a copy of Wizard’s Weekly above his head as though it were the World Cup.

Hermione groaned. On the front cover, in moving colour, was a shot of her punching Lucius Malfoy in the face. The headline read, “War-Hero Decks Former Death Eater!!!!!!”

The little hope that she had been nursing that somehow, this entire sorry event had managed to slip the notice of the wizarding world fizzled away.

Molly said, “I think we’d better sit down, dear.”

 

* * *

 

Within minutes the whole family had made themselves at home. Arthur was making tea, delighted with her electric kettle and all her muggle appliances. Everyone else had assembled in a spacious, ultra-modern living room that starkly contrasted with their hand-me-downs and scruffy haircuts.

“Hermione, I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re on your side.” Molly began.

Ron gave a little snort. “‘Course we’re on her side, mum. This is the best thing that’s happened all year.” Ron had thrown himself onto her rug and was still pouring over the picture. George was sitting cross legged next to him. He looked more animated than Hermione had seen him in a long, long time.

“Whatever happens, we’re right behind you.” Arthur called out from the kitchen. “Not that I think he’d be fool enough to try anything. What did Kingsley say?”

Of course they knew she’d been to see the Minister. The whole wizarding world probably knew.

“He’s asked me to apologise to Malfoy, and he wants me to do it where people can see it.”

Ron and Ginny swore vehemently and Arthur came laden with tea mugs, shaking his head. “Those non-magical assault laws are archaic. They won’t last long under Kingsley. My advice; just leave it and let this blow over. I’d bet my last Sickle that within six months, he’ll sneak a Bill through the Ministry making muggle violence a little more acceptable. Before you know it, Malfoy won’t have a leg to stand on, even if he does decide to prosecute.” With an encouraging smile, he pushed a cup into her hands, as though he thought she was too fragile to take it herself.

“I don’t think Kingsley should have to pass a law making violence less illegal just so I can get away with what I did, Arthur.” Hermione said slowly. She took a sip of her tea. “But I don’t want to apologise either.”

She hadn’t told them yet that she had already made up her mind to do it. It seemed somehow treacherous to say aloud. She couldn’t stand the idea of how her loved ones might look at her if they knew she was going to back down like a-

Like a coward.

Ron looked away from the paper for the first time since he’d walked in the door. “Hermione. This is Lucius Malfoy we’re talking about. He deserved it. Don’t blame yourself for him being a twat for the last fifty years.”

George looked up at his father with a thoughtful expression, and Hermione thought she could hear the wheels of mischief starting to turn. “Dad, you hit him once, didn't you? How’d you get away with it? Some sort of loophole?”

Everyone beamed at him, including Hermione. “No, son.” Arthur said gently. “The truth is, with Gilderoy Lockhart there signing his ridiculous books, my little- ah, altercation with Malfoy wasn’t even the most interesting thing happening in Flourish and Blotts that day, let alone in the wizarding world.” He sighed. “These are different times, son. There hasn’t been so much as a robbery in weeks! Not with the famous Harry Potter in the Auror Division.” Harry smiled sheepishly at that, but couldn’t protest much. He knew it was true. “People are too scared to commit crimes these days. Nothing worthy of getting in the paper, anyway.”

“Except you, Hermione,” Ginny said cheekily. “People will be talking about what you did for years.”

Hermione rather thought that that was the problem. “Pass me that paper, Ron. Let’s see what people are saying.”

 

* * *

 

A quick skim of Wizard Weekly -and the Daily Prophet, when Hermione’s owl brought it to her- confirmed what she had already suspected. She even read Ginny’s copy of the Quibbler, just to be sure.

Her drunken assault of Lucius Malfoy was, apparently, the most important thing to have happened in all of wizardry last night. Articles about the ‘incident’ were featured on every front page. The rest of the newspapers were mostly filled with flimsy justifications for her behaviour. Photographs of her standing side by side with Harry and Ron. Reviews of some of the books and essays she had written. Praise of her charitable works, and admiration for all of the new spells and potions she had created at such a young age.

No-one seemed to find it wrong that she could do what she had done. Reporters weren’t outright saying that Malfoy had been asking for it, but no-one was defending him, and there wasn’t so much as a single reference to all of his philanthropic works to be seen. The only difference between all of the papers was that the Quibbler seemed to think that a cabal of Argentinian Mind-Wranglers could be behind her ‘uncharacteristic display’.

Everyone seemed to think that she was above criticism. They danced around the truth to try to excuse what she had done. Or maybe it was just that everyone thought former Death Eaters didn’t deserve protection.

It all left a horrible taste in her mouth.

While she sat frowning and thinking, it occurred to the Molly and Arthur that she probably needed some time to herself, and all of a sudden they remembered that they had somewhere important to be. With pointed looks at Harry and all their children, they kissed and hugged her and scolded her fiercely for not visiting in so long.

As Hermione was shooing everyone out the door, she realised that Harry had gone awfully quiet. He wasn’t sulking, exactly, but he looked so lost in thought as he hovered in the doorway that she wondered if he had forgotten where he was.

“Harry?” Molly called. “Better get a move on, dear.”

“You go on.” Harry assured her. “We have some catching up to do.”

She saw exactly what he was planning. “Oh, Harry, don’t. I’m fine. Really. Go home with Ginny.”

“Rubbish.” Harry said flatly. “We’re staying, aren’t we, Ron?”

Ron looked at her uncomfortably as he thought it over. They hadn’t slept in the same house since the break-up. Then Ron nodded and said, “Yeah, good idea.” His face broke in a slow grin. “Reckon there’s enough space in that living room for a tent?”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, there was more than enough space. They set up the old tent with fits of laughter. They stuffed it full with blankets and cushions, and Molly’s cooking. Lamps adorned every available space, chasing out the darkness within and without. With a flick of her wand, the apartment rang with music. It was childish and silly, but they all needed it. Something like the glory of the old days had come back to them and for one night it was just them against the world. How she had missed it.

Hermione had a whole cake to herself and more fudge than was wise. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to stomach more than a mouthful at a time. In between mouthfuls, they talked about how Harry’s work was going (he was excelling, but still uncomfortable with the way his fellow Aurors treated him) and about Ron’s plans to turn his team of second-rate flyers into legends.

They talked, endlessly, about her work. Harry asked how she had made the Who-Am-I? and if it could be made any smaller so that it might be used in the field. Ron teased her for a good half hour about her decorative choices. It was plainly obvious that they were trying to keep her mind off things, but their transparency didn’t change the fact that they had dropped everything to come and support her.

Before she knew it, it was very late. The had turned off all the lamps, save one, and the music was no more than a whisper. The sun would be up soon. Ron was snoring in his steady, predictable way, and who would have thought that such a grating sound could be so comforting? Hermione flicked idly through one of her old Charm’s books by the light of her wand, wondering what her past self would have said if she had known the mess that she would one day get into.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She turned, surprised to find Harry still awake. She shouldn’t have been. The one subject they had avoided was what she had done, and it couldn’t be put off forever.

Harry turned on a lantern with a flick of his wrist and untangled himself from his sleeping bag. He didn’t look happy. “If it was that bad, why didn’t you talk to us? We’re your friends.”

God, he was so kind. She had shut him out and lied to him by omission for months, and he was still trying to save her. She smiled weakly at him. “I can take care of myself, Harry. I’ve been doing it for years.”

Sadly, he didn’t take the bait. His emerald eyes pierced her and held her in place. “You waited until we were both gone, and then you went to see the man who watched you get tortured? Hermione, we would have gone with you.”

His hurt rung in every word. She had hurt her best friend. “You would have tried to stop me, Harry, and I needed to face him.” She turned away. “You don’t know what it’s been like.”

“So tell me what it’s been like, then.”

Wrapped up in his sleeping bag behind them, Ron had stopped snoring. Neither of them noticed.

At the very least, she owed him an answer, but it was hard to find the words. “They’re all gone. Voldemort, Bellatrix, Pettigrew. Everyone who had a part in killing our friends. But he’s everywhere.”

At Harry’s disbelieving look, she elaborated, “I mean, I see him everywhere, even...” even when I’m sleeping. “He’s the only one of them left, and just because of who he is, they’ve all let him get away with it. It’s just so wrong.”

“The war is over. It’s been hard for all of us. But we’ve got to-”

“To what? Pretend that it didn’t happen?”

“No! I’ll never forget the sound of her torturing you. Or burying all our friends. But I’m not burying you too, Hermione. You can’t go on like this. If he really is this evil person that you think he is, this is exactly what he would want. For you to spend your life being miserable over him.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Are you saying you don’t think he’s evil?”

“The Malfoys didn’t really have a lot of choices, Hermione.” She made a noise of disgust, and he went quiet for a moment. “But they’re not what matters to me. You are. You and Ron, and all the rest of us. We made it, Hermione. We survived.”

I’m not sure about that, Harry. Sometimes I think that a part of me died in that Manor. The brave, selfless part, and ever since then, I’ve been trying to get her back, but it never works for long.

“How do you do it, Harry?” Her eyes were stinging, and she absently rubbed them. “Voldemort Crucio’d you, didn’t he? You pretended to be dead. You didn’t make a sound. And now you’re an Auror, and you have Ginny, and-” And you don’t have nightmares, and think about vengeance all the time. You’re still a good person.

Where did my goodness go?

She realised that she was crying. Horrible, wracking sobs. She pressed her hands to her face in shame. A moment later she found herself pulled into a crushing hug.

Face pressed into her hair, Ron said, “You have us, Hermione. We’re the Golden Trio, remember?” His voice broke on the last word.

She choked out a laugh. It only made her cry harder, which in turn, made them hug her harder. One of them, she didn’t know who, started rubbing her back comfortingly.

The Golden Trio. There was nothing shining or precious about her anymore. She didn’t feel like a hero. Maybe she never had been one. Just a person who was lucky enough to have kind parents, excellent teachers, and wonderful friends.

“We could always make a run for it.” Harry said as the three of them watched the sun rise. “Just us, Ginny, Molly and Arthur, George and Crookshanks. We’d have to swing by Romania and grab Charlie, though…”

She laughed again, and this time there were no tears in it. “I’ll start packing, shall I?”

As they bid their farewells, she knew that there would be no running. She was a grown witch, and all the tents and sleepovers in the world could not make her a child again.

 

* * *

 

By noon, Hermione was inundated with hundreds of letters. Much to her relief, there wasn’t a single shred of hate-mail to be found. Most of them were expressions of solidarity from her readers and fellow Hogwarts veterans. There was even a deliciously amused sounding Howler from Headmistress McGonagall.

Before long, the pile was large enough to cover the kitchen table, and it kept growing. Out of the whole lot, there were two she found particularly interesting.

One was from Astoria Greengrass, Draco’s fiance. Hermione only knew that she was a Pureblood, so she would have suspected the letter would be reproachful, if not outright explosive. But instead Astoria was… friendly. Empathetic. She never came out and said it, but it only took a bit of reading between the lines for Hermione to guess that Astoria’s relationship with her fiance’s father was troubled, to say the least.

She supposed it shouldn’t have really shocked her. The Weasleys were Purebloods, after all, and they had been nothing but kind to her. It stood to reason that not all Pureblood families were awful.

The other was from, much to her surprise, Percy Weasley. She had never had any real connection to him, and she was more than a little concerned that he knew where she lived.

But as it turned out, the letter was an overture of friendship. Sort of.

It was several pages long and detailed an exhaustive list of every charge Percy felt the Malfoy lawyers could reasonably hope to bring against her. Judging by the diction used, the list was probably taken from centuries-old statutes, which explained why she had never heard of any of them. Percy had even taken the time to jot down the punishments a guilty verdict would bring her.

“Grievous Harm to the Reputation of a Pureblood?” She had a good laugh at that one. No-one could possibly do more harm to Lucius Malfoy’s reputation than what he had done himself. She made a mental note to send the letter to Ron and Harry; after how kind they had been, it really was the least that she could to.

Then she read the punishments Percy had scrawled next to it. She stopped dead. In a disbelieving sort of voice, she read aloud; “Exile? Censure? Seizure of Property and Indentured Servitude?”

Suddenly, she couldn’t have laughed if someone had offered her a thousand Galleons to do it. Hermione paced back and forth, the letter in her hands. She had to blink several times before her vision cleared enough to read again.

The awful letter went on. “Malicious Slander (Of a Pureblood by an Inferior Person)... Whipping! Wand-stripping!” Her blood ran cold. “Azkaban?”

Azkaban! The Minister hadn’t said a word about Azkaban. Or the rest of it. Was this what he had meant when he had mentioned that Lucius could bring charges against her?

She had thought the idea of apologising horrible enough as it was, but what if that didn’t satisfy him?

She wrestled down her fear with a calming breath. None of it mattered, because regardless of the charges, Lucius Malfoy couldn’t hope to beat her in a court of law. She had made a mistake. A terrible, stupid mistake. She saw that now, albeit belatedly, but that didn’t change the fact of who she was. And who he was.

Besides, she had been able to put a case together for Buckbeak, hadn’t she? With enough time, she was sure she could present a defence, and she had some Inquisitor friends of her own. Arthur had said the laws could always be rewritten… But she didn’t want to resort to that. Not unless she had no choice.

He would never be able to get a conviction. Would he?

She was struck by a vision of Lucius as she had seen him at the Battle of Hogwarts. Pale, brittle, gaunt. She remembered the way his robes had hung off of him. Such a powerful figure, brought so low. The pride he had wrapped around himself like a cloak torn to shreds, until he was a mere shadow of himself.

That would never happen to her. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t allow any of it to happen to her.

At the end of the letter, Percy included the following postscript,

Please bear in mind, Ms Granger, that the lawyers the Malfoy family has at their disposal may not hesitate to levy charges that the common man would see as absurd, if their master demanded that they do it. What’s more, my experience in the Ministry (and here Percy broke off to write an entire paragraph lauding his own exalted achievements and various portfolios) does not grant me the precise knowledge of the law that Lord Malfoy’s lawyers would undoubtedly have. Your actions may have broken laws that I am not aware of.

Perhaps if you threw yourself on his mercy, you might escape with a simple wand-stripping? They don’t expect it to be done in public these days, and really, being an academic I’m sure you could get by without a wand for a year or so-

Somewhere in the kitchen, a glass violently flung itself off the shelf to shatter against the wall.

She waited all day for a Ministry owl until she was sick with worry, hoping for some confirmation that Kingsley had done as promised. That the situation, though bad, would not get any worse.

But none came.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a lot of work but I am proud of the result. Major thanks to my editor and beta for all the work they put into making this one shine!
> 
> I wanted to have a quick talk with all you beautiful readers about what will be happening over the next few chapters. And don't worry, this talk is spoiler free.
> 
> Firstly, the next chapter will be... kind of an interlude. It won't be very long. It will also be, sadly, our second to last chapter for this route, but I think you are going to enjoy it as it's been really fun to write.
> 
> Secondly, after giving it a lot of thought, I've decided to give the story an alternate ending. XD Do I play too many romance games? Honestly, maybe. Of course, you'll be under no obligation whatsoever to read the alternate ending. You are more than welcome to read the final chapter of this route (which will be chapter seven) and go, 'Hey, that's enough for me now, I'm not really down with this alternate ending malarkey, I'm okay with this ending.' However, if you have any inclination, you are more than welcome to read the alternate route of the story, and pick whichever ending pleases you the most.
> 
> Either way, you are the readers, so go for whatever you prefer!
> 
> Thank you all, and I hope to see you again soon! As always, your reviews give me life.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! The prologue was only meant to be a few hundred words long, but it got away from me a little bit... :D 
> 
> Chapter One, which is called 'You Know What They Say...' is in the editing stages and will be coming soon. This is the first time I have written Harry Potter fanfiction so it may not be perfect. Please feel free to leave any questions/feedback below.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and see you next time!


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